Amie in Africa Box Set 1

by Lucinda E Clarke

  “Do they tie you up like this every night?” she whispered.

  “Yeah, don’t you think we’d have tried to escape otherwise?” the reply was delivered with a fair amount of sarcasm.

  “I’m sorry,” Amie replied, “I should’ve guessed. I’m working in the dark here, and I’ve no idea if I have even freed anyone yet.”

  “I can move,” said a new voice that gave Amie a start. She thought she recognized it. “Mrs Motswezi?” she whispered.

  “You know me!”

  “Yes, yes I do,” Amie didn’t let up for a moment, sawing backwards and forwards with the knife. Relief washed over her. Now, they might stand a chance, with an interpreter she could organize the women.

  “You remember me?” she asked.

  “No, but your voice … you sound familiar.”

  “It’s Amie, I used to visit your school and play with the children.”

  “Aieeeee, I remember you well!”

  Mrs Motswezi’s voice rose as she grasped Amie in the dark to the sounds of lots of shushing from the rest of the prisoners.

  “You don’t know where, if, is …” Amie was almost too afraid to ask the question but she had to know. “Is Angelina here too?” she asked in a rush.

  “Yes. The poor child is one of us, but she is not here now in this tent, she is one of the favourites so they take her …” Mrs Motswezi’s voice dropped.

  Tears coursed unbidden down Amie’s cheeks and her whole body shook causing the person she was trying to set free to yelp in pain.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she murmured and tried to concentrate on the task in hand. As she worked, she mentally tried to add up how many pieces of twine she would need to cut through.

  “Is anyone else free yet?” she asked.

  Mrs Motswezi translated and told her that she had released two more.

  Amie paused and tried to concentrate. Which side of the tent faced the river? “Tell me where the door is, take my hand and point it in the right direction.”

  Someone reached out and moved her arm and pulled it out behind her. Amie pushed one of the women in the opposite direction. “The river is that way,” she whispered as loudly as she dared. “We can start to dig under the canvas and slip out and over the river, but we have to be very fast and very quiet.”

  Mrs Motswezi translated and the two women who were no longer tied up scrambled to the back of the tent. The women were crawling, pulling and pushing to reach the other side, while those who were still tied up tried to get out of the way. There were grunts and groans as feet trampled over stomachs and bodies fell onto arms and legs and heads bumped together. Amie despaired. If she had only freed three people so far, how much longer was this going to take?

  She managed to free two more of the women, but the next piece of twine she was hacking at gave way suddenly and she fell over backwards. The knife flew out of her hand and landed somewhere in the darkness. Amie wanted to scream, as if it wasn’t difficult enough.

  There was frantic scrabbling behind her until a small grunt of satisfaction announced someone had found it. Another pair of hands started to cut through the rope while Amie rubbed her sore arm and tried to feel her way to the back of the tent where at least three of the women were scrabbling at the hard earth.

  “Wait,” hissed Mrs Motswezi, “there is a spoon here, I took it at supper, we must use that too.”

  “No!” gasped Amie, putting the heel of her hand against her forehead. “I’m not thinking straight. We have the knife, it’s a bit blunt now but we might be able to cut through the canvas.”

  “We is all free,” whispered the English voice. “Here, here, the knife is here. I got it. Run it down the wall.”

  It seemed to take an age to get the knife to even make a hole in the canvas, but once it poked through it was easy to slice it downwards and the pale moonlight flooded into the tent.

  “Put your burqas back on,” hissed Amie, “they won’t see us so easily in the dark.”

  There were a few discontented murmurs, but one by one the women crawled out of the back of the tent and scuttled towards the river. Amie thought it best not to mention she’d seen a crocodile further downstream.

  One behind the other they waded across, with Amie bringing up the rear, constantly looking over her shoulder to see if there was any activity from the tents. She could feel the hairs tingling on her back. She imagined a bullet smashing into her at any moment, but she gritted her teeth, slid down the bank, holding her burqa above the lazily flowing water.

  Once they reached the far side, some of the women raced away from the camp as quickly as they could, but Amie stepped forwards and grabbed the English girl’s arm. “Wait, I have to collect my bag, it’s further along here in those bushes.”

  For a moment Amie thought the girl would rush away, but reluctantly she followed Amie while she retrieved her belongings. They set off after the others, barely able to make them out in the dark as they stumbled towards higher ground.

  One by one they ducked low as they crested the skyline and rolled or fell down the other side. Once at the bottom, they paused, out of breath, exultant and fearful all at the same time. They were free, but for how long?

  On this side of the ridge the land was not as flat, but rose in gentle waves interspersed with towering rocks. On the far side of the wide valley rose another ridge with an even higher range of hills in the distance. They set off across the valley floor, making for the next incline. Amie thought she could see dark holes that might indicate caves in the hillsides. She wondered how far it was safe to go, that wouldn’t take them too far away from the camp.

  “I have to go back,” she whispered to the English girl.

  “What! Yer mad, we only just escaped goddammit, what the hell would you go back for?”

  “My husband and friends they are still there I can’t abandon them,” Amie replied.

  “Well, you can bloody well count me out,” replied her new ‘friend’. “Yer won’t catch me back there in a million years. Yer on your own.”

  A hand grabbed Amie’s and a gentle voice said, “I will stay with you. I could never leave behind my children. It is God’s wish for me to protect them. They are in my care. My sister was not in the tent with us. I cannot leave her behind. She is the only family I have left.”

  “Mrs Motswezi,” tears welled up in Amie’s eyes. “I hadn’t forgotten Angelina. We must go back for her too.”

  “Nuts the pair of you,” spat their companion. “I’m outta here.”

  “And which way are you going to go?” asked Mrs Motswezi in a calm voice. “Do you know where we are?”

  “Well, no, but I do know I’m getting as far away from that hell hole as it’s possible to get. You two can please yerselves.” With that the girl got up and squinted into the darkness, and it was then they noticed the other three women had melted away into the night. They were on their own.

  “My name is Amie,” she put out her hand, though it seemed a ridiculous gesture standing there in the African night. They had practically been lying on top of one another only a few minutes ago.

  “Shalima,” the girl said reluctantly, and briefly grasped Amie’s hand in a limp handshake.

  “We need to move further away,” said Mrs Motswezi, pointing back towards the terrorist camp. “They will come to look for us in the morning, we need to hide.”

  “Well, I’ll be off then,” said Shalima. “Good luck, hope you manage to free all the prisoners, though I don’t think much of yer chances,” and she set off across the shallow valley, striding out as if she was walking along her local high street on a Saturday afternoon.

  “She has no water, no food,” muttered Mrs Motswezi.

  Amie pulled a face. There was nothing either of them could do to force her to stay, and perhaps she would catch up with the other women and they would all make it to the nearest village or town. She had no idea how large the previously designated National Park was, but it couldn’t go on for too many miles.

  “W
e need to find a cave,” Amie whispered, “to hide in.”

  “Yes, over there,” Mrs Motswezi pointed further along the ridge where they could see dark, round holes in the hillside. “If we go over one more mountain there will be holes on the other side.”

  Amie smiled at the idea of them climbing over a mountain and then for no reason she could explain, she suddenly reached out to Mrs Motswezi and gave her a big hug. For several seconds the two women clung together. Was it for comfort, a show of solidarity, or simply because they’d escaped and were alive? Amie didn’t care about the reason, it was simply an expression of her love for the brave woman who was prepared to help her set the children free and return them to a normal society.

  Wrapping their burqas up round their waists, the two set off parallel to the ridge, looking out for a suitable cave, but to their disappointment they could see nothing that was easily accessible. They crossed another valley and looked for a refuge on the far side of the next ridge. The rising moon and the almost cloudless sky made it easier to pick their way over the ground, avoiding the rocks and tree roots

  Mrs Motswezi stopped and grabbed Amie’s arm. “We will need to hurry, there is rain coming.”

  Amie looked at her in surprise, and glanced up into the sky where she could only see a couple of fluffy, white clouds floating in front of the stars. She wondered if the horrendous experience Mrs Motswezi had lived through had somehow unhinged her mind, but for some inexplicable reason, many Africans knew these things. Nothing in science or rational thinking could possibly explain this innate sense many of them had about the land or their affinity with it. So, if her old friend was still sane, and believed it was going to rain, then Amie believed it was going to rain too.

  Struggling under the smelly, restricting burqa, Amie scrambled up the next slope. As soon as she reached the other side, she collapsed on the ground and lay there puffing and panting. Her chest heaved from the exertion and Mrs Motswezi didn’t look in much better shape, when her roly-poly figure flopped down beside Amie. I don’t know if I am out of shape for my age, or Mrs Motswezi has hidden strengths I can’t even imagine, thought Amie. She looks horribly overweight, yet she has the resilience and tenacity of someone half her age. Now that she thought of it, Amie had no idea how old the headmistress was and she wasn’t about to ask; it would be considered most impolite. She could only look at her companion and marvel.

  “Look, up there,” Mrs Motswezi was pointing to a ledge a little further along. “That looks like a safe place to shelter. Come, we must go, go now. Come, we go.”

  Despite the urgency of the situation, Amie had to smile, ‘come, go, go, come’. Slowly she got to her feet, feeling as if every bone in her body had been battered with a hammer. At least her trousers had dried out in the cool night air, but her boots were still wet and had rubbed the tender skin on her feet. She was not looking forward to taking them off to inspect the damage. Earlier events had pushed all thoughts of discomfort away, but now she was beginning to calm down a little, she was aware of every bit of her body with all its aches and pains. Amie had recently passed her thirtieth birthday, but right now she felt twice as old as Mrs Motswezi who got to her feet with ease, picked up a long, dry branch and made for the dark shadow which suggested a cave, its entrance partially concealed by a large, leafy bush clinging to the rock face.

  As they approached the entrance they paused and listened, but there was not a sound. Mrs Motswezi tapped the ground gently at the opening below the overhang and getting no response, took a few steps forward and poked the stick out in front of her, repeating this several times.

  “I think it is safe,” she said softly. She moved in a little further and sat on the dry floor. Her companion sank down gratefully beside her.

  Amie examined her rescued backpack. It looked exactly as she had left it no holes had appeared and the straps were still secure. She pulled out a bottle of water and offered it to her friend. The older lady took it, drank and handed it back. Amie rummaged further into the bag. “Are you hungry?”

  In the gloom she saw Mrs Motswezi shake her head. “No, those animals made us prisoners, but we ate well.”

  “How did you? Tell me what happened.” Amie was not sure where to begin, as she folded up the burqa to use as a blanket and contemplated the painful task of removing her boots.

  In a voice that was quiet and unemotional, Mrs Motswezi described how she’d been sitting in her office when Pretty, Amie’s maid, had rushed in dragging Angelina by the hand. She had some foolish story about men who were shooting in the streets and she was leaving and going back to her village far away from all the trouble. Her problem was that her madam, Mrs Amie, had left Angelina in her care and she could not leave the child, so she was now the responsibility of Mrs Motswezi. She assured her that her madam would come to claim the child as soon as she came home from the town. And if she never returned? Then Angelina was now where she belonged, in the hostel with the other AIDS orphans. Pretty had done what she could.

  No sooner had Pretty left, when some men had driven in through the gates. They’d leapt out of the vehicles waving guns, shouting, and screaming at everyone to leave the buildings. They fired bullets into the air while they watched the dazed children and their teachers rush out into the playground. While some herded their captives into a large group in the central playground, others raced through the buildings to make sure no one was hiding. Any who were found were dragged out by their ears, beaten and roughly pushed towards the other children and teachers. Mrs Motswezi had tried to reason with them. These were only innocent children who had never done harm to anyone, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. They might be children now, but one day they would grow up and they would turn on the new government. They would remember this day and want vengeance.

  The men were not very organized and there was much discussion and argument as they formed a loose cordon around their prisoners and herded them towards the boundary. When they opened fire on the children there was pandemonium. Mrs Motswezi shook her head and tears filled her eyes as she recounted her story.

  9 ATTACK ON THE ORPHANAGE

  Some of the children went rigid in fear, others screamed, while many tried to run. The teachers were helpless, they couldn’t decide whether to stay and comfort those who were in shock, or run in a futile attempt to save their own lives. And still the firing went on and on and on. Yet more threw themselves flat on the ground and lay still, indistinguishable from those who were already dead.

  The men turned their attention to the school buildings, gathering up the meagre bedding to use as kindling. Two more lorries drove in through the gates, bumping over the rough ground to where the heap of innocent bodies lay. A few of the younger, prettier teachers were spared and forced at gunpoint to stand in a group a little way off. Mrs Motswezi had wondered if it would be better to die there and then. Who knew what fate the men had in store for them?

  Soon the buildings were alight. They went up like a torch, the flames reaching up into the sky, creating huge, billowing clouds of smoke. A few of the men were ordered to collect the little bodies and load them into the back of the lorries. None of them looked too happy with their appointed task, especially as the wind came up and the plumes of smoke blew in their faces making it difficult to see. Soon they were working in a thick cloud of ash and it was at that time a few of the survivors were able to escape, among them, Mrs Motswezi who was still holding Angelina’s hand.

  “How awful it must have been,” murmured Amie. “How awful.” She sat silently for a moment. “But that was months and months ago, where have you been since?”

  “I went back to my village. Pretty had the best idea, she said it would be safe in the rural areas.”

  “And …?” Amie waited to hear the rest of the story.

  “Angelina and I lived in the village where I had come from.” Mrs Motswezi sighed. “I worked so hard, so very hard, to escape the village life. I had studied my best at school, my parents sold two cows so I could go to attend t
he high school in the nearest big town. And they sold another four to pay for my fees so I could train to be a teacher.” She paused for several moments lost in thought. “I did very well at the college,” there was pride in her voice. “I came out the top student and I was offered many teaching posts, but I chose one in Apatu. Ah, yes, the big, capital city, that was what I had been working for all those years.”

  “And you taught in Apatu for many years?” Amie enquired.

  “Yes, and I was a good teacher. But I heard about the many children who now had no parents, they had died from AIDS. These poor little souls had no one to care for them and so I told myself that I would make them a good home. Many had been turned away from their villages as the stigma of AIDS made them unwelcome. I persuaded some of the church people to spend money to put up the buildings, and we employed a teacher and a housemother. We opened the doors.”

  “When I first visited the orphanage, you had several teachers and lots of classes and the hostel too,” Amie added.

  “Ah yes. That was good. We teach the children in English and that made us to be popular, so more children came, even those who still had parents. We grew and grew and grew.”

  “Exactly like Topsy,” Amie smiled, but Mrs Motswezi only looked puzzled.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Oh, nothing, it was a book from my childhood,” said Amie.

  Mrs Motswezi said nothing for a moment and continued her story. “But now after all the struggle, I was back in my home village, back with my parents again. The fighting was in the capital and we thought we were safe in our kraals, living off the land. But it was not so many months when different soldiers came.” She indicated the direction of the terrorist camp. “We had no idea where they come from, or why they had come. They appeared in their trucks one Sunday morning while we were at our prayers. They drove in and got out and seized the cross and assaulted our preacher. Poor man he only travelled to our village once in a while, and now he was being beaten by these strangers, and he did not know why. Everyone was told to lie on the ground and they began more shooting.”